Too Long A Memory: A Clintasha Short Story
by Clarity's Illusions
Summary: He's destroying himself. He has been for three months, four weeks, and six days. And all she can do is watch. She's always shared his grief, lightened the load by taking half of it on her own shoulders. But this time...this time, his sorrow is only his own.
1. Natasha

**Here is an extremely angsty Clintasha story! PLEASE review. Let me know if it stinks or not. **

He slammed into the apartment long after midnight, shutting the door in his teammates' faces. She heard the locks click home as he rested his forehead against the heavy wood. She couldn't hear them pleading with him anymore; only a muffled hum bled through the thick door.

She sighed. He had been doing so well. She had hoped that maybe, just maybe, he had started down the road to healing. Judging from the lines in his face, the exhaustion and pain pulling him down, she had been wrong.

Clint pried himself off the door and dragged himself to the tiny kitchen. The bottle of bourbon came out from under the cabinet, two glasses from the cupboard just above the stove. He ignored the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink and the layer of dust coating everything and slumped down at the table, just as he had every night for exactly three months, four weeks, and six days.

Prying the lid off the bourbon, he poured two shots. His hands shook so badly half of it sloshed out, but if he didn't notice. If he did, he didn't care. She leaned against the cabinet, watching, arms crossed and heart heavy. It hurt her so badly to see him like this. It hurt even worse to know that she couldn't do anything to help him out of the depression he'd fallen into.

"I miss you," he said into his drink. "I miss you, Tasha."

And when his shoulders began to shake with sobs, she could only stand behind him and wish she could cry too. He drew in a shuddering breath and poured himself another drink. "I miss you so damn much," he muttered, and downed it in one gulp.

Dawn found him slumped over on the table, head pillowed on his arms. One glass was empty, and so was most of the bottle. The other glass remained on her side of the table, untouched.

Someone, Tony she thought, finally succeeded in picking all the locks on the door. It swung open and five concerned people filed in. Steve was the first to break the silence. "Jesus, Clint."

Bruce picked up the nearly-empty bourbon bottle. They all saw the untouched second glass, and they all knew it was for her. They also knew she'd never drink it.

She sat in the chair across from him and watched as Pepper wiped away her tears. Tony and Steve helped him up from the chair, each of them taking a side. Slowly, they walked him out of the apartment, ignoring his hung-over, exhausted calls for _Tasha._

She remained at the table long after silence descended, forcing herself not to go after them. It wasn't her job to look after him anymore. She would have to trust them to do it.

But late that night, when he didn't come back, she gave herself permission to leave. Down the silent corridor, whispering down the stairs, arriving at the place she knew he would be.

And he was. Sound asleep and freshly-clean, and for the first time in weeks she couldn't smell the whiskey clinging to him like a funeral shroud. He looked so small, there in the middle of Tony and Pepper's big bed. They took care of him for her now.

Sadness swept through her in a quiet wave. He didn't need her anymore. Her presence was only weighing him down, tying him to his grief. Holding him back.

She needed to accept that it was time for her to go.

Moonlight sparkled on the floor and landed on his face, enhancing the furrows time and sorrow had carved out on his skin. _"_Goodbye, Clint," she whispered, her voice settling on the room like a faint hint of dust. "It's okay to forget me. But I'll always love you. Always remember."

She reached down and touched his face, but her fingers faded through his cheek without being warmed by his skin. He shivered a little, shifting over on his other side. His breath hitched slightly, and she withdrew her hand slowly.

As long as she stayed, he couldn't heal.

She passed back through the apartment, drifting through like a cool breeze. Pepper and Tony were washing dishes, Bruce was picking up dirty clothes, and Steve was flushing all the whiskey and bourbon down the toilet. He looked up as she passed, and she could swear he'd seen her. She held his blue gaze, watched as he frowned, searching, then turned back to his task with a small shake of his head. She moved on, the drapes bearing witness to her passage with only the slightest of movements.

Natasha Romanoff disappeared into the winter night with the bittersweet knowledge that Clint would be just fine - his family would see to that.


	2. Clint

**I was going to let this be complete where it stood...but I couldn't let it rest. This is Clint's side of the story. REVEIW, PLEASE! :)**

Of all the ways losing her had hurt him, there was only one that kept him awake every night. One that jerked him awake screaming away the nightmares that never quite left him alone.

There had been no goodbye.

He had always known one of their missions would eventually end badly. That one day their luck would just run out, and one of them would come home without the other. He had imagined a thousand times just what he would say to her, if it was her face staring down into his as he faded. He had even known what he would say if – God forbid, it hurt to even entertain the thought! – if it were her dying in his arms.

But he had never, not once, imagined this. No goodbye, no closure, no last words. In the end, there had only been the silent emptiness of her leaving him forever.

A cold suit had knocked at the door of his apartment, delivering with practiced coolness the message that Natasha would not be coming home. There had been a massive explosion. No body to recover. No personal effects had survived. Yes, they had definite confirmation that Agent Natasha Romanoff had been caught in the blast. No survivors. No glimmer of hope. We're very sorry, sir.

Clint had slammed the door in his face so hard the walls rattled. Then he buried his face in his hands and slid down to the floor, sobs shaking him so hard he thought he would die from lack of air. He wished he would.

Tony, Steve, Pepper, Bruce…they had all come. They sat with him silently, just being there, and he hated he was falling apart in front of them, but Natasha was gone and it hurt so bad and he just couldn't help it…

But life went on. And he hated it. Days passed. A small memorial service, which he didn't attend because it wasn't really her in that casket, and it hurt too much anyway. He looked forward to getting home every night, because that meant he could drink himself stupid and maybe forget for a little while.

Three months, four weeks, and six days. That's how long it had been since she'd left. That's how long it had been since he'd been coming home to an empty apartment and a bottle of bourbon.

"You're killing yourself, Clint," Tony said.

"You're one to talk about that, aren't you?" Clint snapped, wondering for the hundredth time why he and Nat had had to take Tony up on his offer to let them move into the newly-renamed Avengers Tower. He stayed now because so much of her was still here, but he was getting tired of his teammates' constant nagging.

"Natasha wouldn't have wanted this!" Steve cut in. Good ol' All-American Steve.

"Shut up," Clint snarled. "You don't know _anything_ about what she wanted."

He slammed the door in their faces, ignoring their voices all going off at once, and slid all the locks home.

He rested his forehead against the wood for a long minute before dragging himself into the kitchen. Dirty dishes, clothes everywhere, empty bottles cluttering every available surface…it didn't bother him anymore. The only thing he cared about lay in the cabinet under the sink…ah, there it was.

He carried the bottle of bourbon and two shot glasses over to the tiny table – old habits die hard, he reflected bitterly.

Filling hers up, he set it in front of her empty chair before sloshing some into his own. His hands shook and he hated that. They had been shaking since…since they told him she wasn't coming home. It had only gotten worse, and Bruce had noticed today. Clint couldn't bring himself to care.

"I miss you," he muttered into his drink. "I miss you, Tasha."

He began to cry, shoulders shaking like his hands, pain ripping through him until he didn't know if he could hold himself together anymore. He forced the sobs back long enough to pour himself another drink. "I miss you so damn much," he whispered.

For a moment, he could swear he smelled her perfume, the kind she only wore on special occasions. But it must have been the alcohol. The apartment hadn't smelled like her in weeks, despite his efforts to keep it lingering.

Sometime before dawn, he pillowed his head on his arms and went to sleep, empty bottle of bourbon next to her still-full glass.

The sound of Tony's voice prompted him into semi-wakefulness. "Jesus, Clint," it said. "What are you trying to do, kill yourself?"

He muttered something even he couldn't make out, and then someone was picking him up off the table and steering him out of the apartment, but he didn't want to go because Tasha was there and he missed her and his head was spinning…

A shower, coffee, and clean clothes later, Pepper and Tony tucked him into their own bed. Still too out of it to protest, Clint curled over on his side and gave in to sleep.

A chill rippled over his body. He couldn't quite tell if he was dreaming or not, but it felt pleasant. Safe. Not like the nightmares he had of her being ripped apart, screaming his name, but he never got there until it was too late. No. This was different.

She was standing there.

It was his Tasha, but she looked…different. Still just as achingly beautiful, but translucent somehow. And her face was sad, achingly sad, as she stared down at him. He wanted to grab her, wrap her in his arms and inhale her warm skin, but he was reduced to being a helpless spectator, unable to interfere as the moments played out.

"Goodbye, Clint," she whispered. Her voice smoothed over his senses, and though it was only a ghost of her former rich, vibrant tones, it still moved him. "It's okay to forget me. But I'll always love you." She looked down. "I'll always remember."

She reached out, and he waited to feel her fingers on his face, as he had so many nights before. But there was only a faint tickle, and then a heavy chill ghosted across his skin. He shivered.

Her hand pulled back and intense grief fell over her face like a curtain."Goodbye," she whispered again, and slowly peace replaced the pain.

He fell back into sleep again, or maybe he'd never really awakened, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it had been real.

A hint of hope smoothed out the edges of the ripping, tearing agony and the painful uncertainty. He would never forget. But maybe one day he could find peace again, because Natasha had given Clint his goodbye.


End file.
